


all roses have their thorns

by orphan_account



Series: phineas and ferb vent fics [1]
Category: Phineas and Ferb
Genre: Blood and Gore, Gen, Heavy Angst, Horror, Psychological Horror, Self-Harm, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:14:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26259970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He's scared. He's so scared.---ahaha don't look at me <3 this was a vent fic I wrote at one am in forty minutes to deal with mental illness shit because I have to project all my problems onto dorito dudejust as a warning this is super fucked up. like beyond what tags can describe. massive trigger warning. viewer discretion is heavily advised
Series: phineas and ferb vent fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1907860
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	all roses have their thorns

Phineas' breath catches in his throat as the blade digs into his flesh, blood welling up as he tears the razor down his arm. The glistening red pouring down his skin is entrancing, hot and wet as crimson fluid spills to the floor and puddles around his feet. The stench of gore violates his nostrils, the iron smell of blood. 

It makes him feel fucking sick.

The thick aroma of congealed crimson splattered against the hardwood floor, streaking the walls and bubbling in the bathtub is too much for Phineas, and suddenly he's soaking his feet in curdled yellow discharge, carrots and blood. Too much blood. He watches, swallowing down a mouthful of bile, as the puke and blood swirl together, the red and yellow making a disgusting brownish orange. It's too much for him, and he lurches forward as another vomiting fit seizes his body, clumps of stringy green ooze shooting from his nose as he throws up his regrets, his mistakes, the evil he had allowed to taint his flesh. 

Phineas gargles, choking back another surge of puke and stumbling backwards. Congealed blood squishes beneath his heels, and he shrieks as he slips in the crimson and goes tumbling backwards. 

Directly into the bathtub.

Another shriek tears itself from Phineas' throat, interrupted by a retching gurgle as he sprays a warm surge of vomit into the foaming sea of reeking blood and gore. His vision blurs, his thoughts meld together into one grotesque cacophony of misery. Screaming and shrieking, Phineas grabs the side of the bath and hauls himself out, every inch of his malnourished body painted red with gore. Slamming into the hardwood floor below, Phineas' body seizes as spittle sprays from his mouth. His hands fumble in the endless sea of rot, the infinite curdled puddle of death, as he feels for anything sharp, anything deadly.

His prayers are answered when his fingers wrap around the handle of a box cutter, wet with blood and sticky with bile and acidic discharge. 

Shoving himself up onto his knees, Phineas unceremoniously digs the blade back into his arm. Blood squirts as he hits a vein, and he chokes back another vomiting fit, bile dribbling down his chin as he pushes hard. Blood spurts, splattering against his face and hair, coating him in another layer of crimson hell.

He hit an artery.

A triumphant shriek tears from his throat, seconds before another surge of vomit joins the growing pond of agony beneath him. Blood spurts hard from his arm, spraying around the room and staining the walls with death. Already, Phineas feels himself growing lightheaded. Already, he can feel his body succumbing to oblivion.

Falling face first into the endless ocean of mindless pain, Phineas gargles blood as the crimson fills his mouth and nose, suffocates him and strangles his lungs. He breathes in, and suddenly he's drowning in gore, dying, dying, dying even faster. 

It's relieving. It's perfect. It's final.

It's fucking terrifying.

He doesn't want to die. He doesn't want to die. HE DOESN'T WANT TO DIE.

Phineas' hands are suddenly grasping at his throat, nails digging in as he chokes back a screech. He changed his mind! Dear fucking Gods, he changed his mind! He's choking, strangling himself like a raccoon in a bear trap as blood spurts from his arm. He's losing strength. He's fading. He's dying and there's nothing he can do. THERE IS NOTHING HE CAN DO.

Suddenly, he slips in the blood again, and his head smashes against the hardwood floor, hard enough to knock him unconscious.

His body twitches violently, jerking like an unruly rag doll. His legs seize and his pelvis tenses as he pisses himself, urine joining the ocean of bodily fluids. Blood squirts from his nostrils, and he chokes out a rattling gasp, a strangled whine. He feels himself falling, sinking, disappearing into oblivion.

Then his body goes limp. 

Still.

Dead.

\------

A newspaper lies discarded in the street. A headline is printed across the front in large, red letters.

"FLYNN-FLETCHER FAMILY FOUND DEAD. POLICE SUSPECT MURDER-SUICIDE AT THE HANDS OF PHINEAS FLYNN."


End file.
